


A War of Words

by Neftzer_nettlestonenell



Series: Jenny Outerbridge of Setauket, Patriot [2]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: American Revolution, Correspondence, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Gen, Original Character(s), Season two TURN, Very Secret Diary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:24:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8463457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neftzer_nettlestonenell/pseuds/Neftzer_nettlestonenell
Summary: Following the concluding events of "The Secret Diary of Jenny Outerbridge of Setauket", said diary has made its way into Washington's camp at Morristown.Set during the S2 opener, "Thoughts of a Free Man"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poma14](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poma14/gifts).



 

 **Washington’s Encampment – Morristown, New Jersey -** Two months may have passed since the Battle of Setauket (if that was indeed what future historians might choose to call it), and yet the fallout of that day’s actions—of the action of one Benjamin Tallmadge in particular--seemed to know as of yet no end.

Said Benjamin Tallmadge had not a quarter hour hence felt the first ripple of mend betwixt he and Caleb Brewster result from the dust raised in their mutual scuffle against Bradford, and here came one Selah Strong (himself more than a little affected by that past day’s events), his usually sober expression now--in the wake of imprisonment and wifely abandonment, if at all possible—more sober yet.

Strong was a tall man, a man once accustomed to the inveterate respect of those who surrounded him, now having been brought low first in his time aboard the _Jersey_ prison ship, and now laboring as a nobody footsoldier in Washington’s army.

As master of Strong Manor he had, from his youth, commanded nearly a full company of slaves. And now it was he who took orders--though rarely, Benjamin Tallmadge (in whose estimation Strong had never fallen) thought--from men his true betters.

Selah arrived in the young Major’s tent to find Ben’s back to the open flap, candles lit around the wooden secretary to aid in the writing Ben was at nearly all times engaged in.

Washington’s Chief of Intelligence rarely finished a letter or dispatch without having another he must set to writing without pause. How Tallmadge found the time to do much else, Selah (despite in his personal life having managed a large farm and Strong Tavern contemporaneously) could not fathom.

He did not see much of the man, to be sure.

In truth, Ben Tallmadge, in the wake of learning of his brother’s death, had found the figure of Selah Strong taking on a new aspect, and a grim one at that. Though Samuel had died through no fault of Selah’s, the sight of Selah’s face now sent something inside Ben rising to the surface. Tallmadge did not spend time examining what that ‘something’ might be. He only knew that it felt much better, at least for the moment, if he got through days without seeing the man that reminded him of so much loss.

It was no way to be a good friend to Selah, he knew. But it wasn’t something that could be helped at the present moment.

It took Strong clearing his throat for Ben to look up from his scribing (so frequent were interruptions he had learned to elide all but the most necessary of them).

The expression on his face at seeing who had stepped within his tent was, instinctively, one of discomfiture.

His day had been long enough that he did not even attempt to cover that first reaction over by masking it under something more pleasant.

“Caleb—“ Selah appended his use of the familiar, “that is, Brewster‘s--sent this over for you to look through,” he said, extending a bound booklet of paper.

Ben’s eyebrow cocked. “That’s quick work,” he said, his eye more to the offered book than to the face of the man holding it. “He only resumed speaking civilly to me a quarter of an hour ago.”

Selah half-shrugged. “Says it might be of some interest to you and your Mr. Sackett.”

Now Selah had his undivided attention, so much so that Ben stopped avoiding looking to Selah’s face. “He’s not been holding out on me with—“ he swallowed back Abe’s name.

Selah’s eyebrows flicked up in question of what Ben had swallowed back. “Best read it to find out,” he made a motion with the book, until Ben accepted it. “Should I wait for a reply?”

Ben turned over the uninteresting cover that bound the textblock. “Honestly,” he said, one flat palm brushing over the unadorned panel, “at this point? I can’t say,” he told Selah.

Upon closer inspection, the head showed that though the greater part of the pages were written upon, several un-touched sheets remained in the back, lying closer together, un-creased, un-decorated or swollen with ink, courtesy of any script--as though the notebook were abandoned before it was complete.

Rather a curiosity in a time where for many, paper oft proved scarce.

He slid one thumb up the foreedge as the book was closed. Unexpectedly, a loose leaf of parchment fluttered to the ground, thrown awry by the action.

Ben leaned over to retrieve it, its text becoming readable as he brought it up closer to the chorus of candles surrounding his desk.

It was not part of the book, but a separate, folded sheet. He flicked down its lower edge, only to be greeted by the signature of his own father—Nathaniel Tallmadge--surrounded by the familiar hands of other Setauket men.

‘Twas the petition to send Selah to the New York Convention.

Ben stole a look at the man himself—who showed no sign of knowing it to be among the volume that he had been tasked to carry.

The appearance of it here was curious, indeed. Two months ago ‘twas this paper set to condemn the men signed to it to their deaths for treason.

“No, don’t stay, Selah,” Benjamin Tallmadge said. “Any reply I’ll carry to Caleb myself.”

Selah Strong gave a nod, though he would have preferred not to be dismissed. Waiting for a reply was a fairly unencumbering sort of task for any soldier. He had no hopes of similarly light work when he returned to his previous post.

The altered look on Tallmadge’s face when he had read the paper that fell from the book made him fairly certain he was fully right to be interested in the volume’s contents.

It had been odd enough to see Caleb Brewster pull a book (of any kind) from among his personal effects.

He supposed inquisitiveness was a common enough reaction for any man who might be acquainted with Washington’s head of intelligence.

Benjamin Tallmadge took note of none of this, not even when Selah Strong, that unnervingly persistent _momento mori_ of Samuel, exited his tent.

For by then, the candles’ flames, the scent of tent canvas, the night’s sounds, the sting of the broken skin on his cheekbone from Bradford’s thick knuckles--the growing soreness of his abdomen from that assault’s kicks and blows--had all fallen away. His attention, his concentration, had fallen deeply into the space between this unexpected volume’s binding.

...tbc...


End file.
